New century, new start
by bleaching night
Summary: Sam Flynn, aka Faramir, has gone to hogwarts and regrets it, frankly. Most fandoms imaginable here, eventually, slash, eventually, rating to be ultra paranoid induced safe.


Time and space are strange things, uncontrollable by humans and animals alike, quite its own lord. Except when certain beings take it upon themselves to challenge this. This is clearly a direct reference to The Doctor, seen as great and good by all those whom witness him on earth, and indeed the fourteen hundred other planets he continually insists on meddling with. Certainly he meddles in a beneficial way, but what of the alternate universes? They exist only a niggling worry in the hearts and minds of Humans often referred to using the highly derogatory term of déjà vu or, worse, they are discovered in the ridiculous practice of regression.

The Doctor, in all his worldly, wondrous wisdom, is not able to account for all the ruptures that happen between all the billions of separate Universes that dance about the fingers and toes of humans. It is not physically possible to monitor them all (all nine and countless zeroes that _should _exist), seeing as they bounce off one another much in the manner of solid particles in a gaseous way, do not worry, they have no density to us Humans, let alone go and repair the countless holes and interactions between them.

This goes a little way to explaining how Faramir son of Denethor came to be standing at platform nine and three quarters. The strangeness of this statement was merely intended to force you to think this is some sort of half-arsed mary sue-ish fic. The man standing on the platform did not bare an enormous resemblance to the Faramir you have no doubt envisaged, no, the man was dressed in jeans and a shirt, was clean shaven and did not carry a sword or longbow. The man standing there looking utterly dismayed as the hulking red engine was swallowed by its own filth had been named Sam Flynn thirty six years seven months and twenty two days ago in Wellington General Hospital.

Sam had spent the first eleven years of his life working with horses on a farm thirteen kilometres outside of Wellington before being sent to Australia's most prestigious wizarding school Darleston. He came away from that with the equivalent of 10 NEWTs, despite taking nearly 18 exams (Australian schooling, when _will_ they learn?), when he decided to train as a DADA teacher, after a time spent as a reputed Magical Creatures Ranger.

As you can see, not remotely like Faramir, Faramir would not have got wound up by a train lurching sickeningly away from him, no, Faramir was more likely to suffer from what I like to call 'No Longer Clean Trousers Syndrome', if his heart hadn't stopped from seeing a very large piece of metal seemingly moving of its own accord.

However, Sam continued with his chosen line of obscene blaspheme. He couldn't see how he had missed the train, the fact he wasn't supposed to be on the train and at Hogwarts a week ago managed to evade his thoughts of anger and he had missed the train because of an obviously normal Star Gate obsession, it wasn't _his _idea to have the science museum exhibition on that specific week, much.

He stopped mid-rant after receiving a particularly accusatory glare from one of the remaining women, slowly, bottle neck style moving towards the hideous gateway, rabbiting in a mass, well, more chicken like than Rabbit-y. Clearly everyone left standing on the concrete disapproved of Sam, and you could understand why, here he was, middle aged without any outward signs of a child, dressed as a muggle with a decidedly muggle looking can of beer clasped protectively to his chest. He smiled warily to be met with further disapproving stares stabbing at him.

Shaking his head to remove the images of them impaling him with their wands he disappeared with a loud crack. Barely a moment later he was stood in his home for the past six and a half months, the Leaky Cauldron. Nobody stirred as he lost his balance, hurtling head first into the bar. There was a lot more interference in England when apparating, what with the high population density, Sam was amazed he spent any time upright.

Tom was standing at the bar waiting for him to resurface, a mug of mead already set on the bar. Sam smiled warily, and, sensibly, pushed the mug away.

"Nah, thanks, Tom, had more than enough recently." Tom seemed a little dismayed at the loss of profit, but was still rather glad to see one of his most lucrative customers returning. Needlessly Sam threw some coins across the slab of wood. He needed as many friends as he could. "Tom." He ventured nervously.

"Aye." Tom had his back to Sam, clearly taken with the dirty glasses.

"I know I can apparate to Hogsmeade, but how do I get to Hogwarts after that?" Tom faltered for a moment, lost in deep, wayward thoughts. He turned slowly, only to drum his fingers on the bar.

"Yer could walk", he muttered, "but that would take yer a while. Yer best bet would be to go to the Three Broomsticks and see if they still got that useful floo connection. Might not though." Shrugging he turned back. Tom shrugging was a strange sight to behold; he did more through his eyes than any actual physical movements. Sam sighed, Granger was going to kill him, and as each second ticked by the more painful the death was going to be.

"Thanks, see you around, perhaps." Tom nodded oddly sad to see the youngish man leave, great entertainment, full of obscure stories. The crack failed to stir any of the fifteen or so occupants once again, Sam didn't mind, he'd landed right in the Three Broomstick's bathroom. And the lack of urinals told him it wasn't the guys.

A supremely prominent blush creeping into his face he slid out the door. For the second time that day he was on the receiving end of vicious glares.

"You alright there?" A body behind the bar was approaching him.

"Ah, decidedly not." The wizard nodded, acknowledging the foreign accent. "I was told you may have a floo connection to Hogwarts." The wizard, a tall youth who had at one time been gangly but now was going some way to filling himself out, frowned. At one time it had not been unusual for people to come requesting that particular route, however, this strangle looking Australian had been the first in near ten years.

"Depends who's asking." The youth had suddenly become far less polite. Sam felt a bit insulted until he realised he was still without robes, still, the wizard before him could only have just have graduated from Hogwarts himself.

"Professor Flynn. New Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, I have a letter from Professor Granger if you wish to have proof." Sam attempted to exercise some authority into his voice, it partially worked, though apparently the youth found his accent funny, which caused Sam to glare defensively.

"Nah, I believe ya, just nobody uses it anymore." The wizard led Sam into a back room.

"Yes, well I'm late." The room was surprisingly boxy considering it was facing the outside of a sixteenth century building. On the far left, flanked by poignantly gaudy wallpaper, was a large oak fireplace. The boy lagged back to grab a pot of floo powder before thrusting it into Sam's hands.

Being an experienced floo user Sam was finally in Hogwarts, not without the nausea or distinct pain in the elbows, he just didn't know where within Hogwarts he was. It seemed to be an office, but, as all wizards know, seeming isn't everything. Sam's gaze cast over the large oak desk, thirty or so desks and a variety of old posters of the stars and planets, many outdated by not so recent discoveries.

With a plaintive meander he worked his way over to the door. At some point in this journey, of some thirty foot, Sam felt himself recall upon his dad, ignoring the silt swilling angrily in his stomach he heard his voice muttering about floo travel. Apparating wasn't overly safe in Australia for some yet to be discovered reason so Sam's father had taken it upon himself to teach his sons the beautiful mode of floo. Unfortunately Sam was somewhere near to being paralytic, as he was whenever faced with his father, but he couldn't help thinking that his first rule was never drink before travelling. Maybe that's why he got the feeling his balance was still in Hogsmeade.

Infact, he couldn't be sure _he _wasn't still in Hogsmeade, this interior didn't resemble the 360 degree photos he'd been sent in the remotest, infact the photos seemed more……… real, in a way. The grey stone towering above him was cold to the touch, and the floor was dangerously uneven, especially to a guy whose balance was about twelve miles away, there were paintings and tapestries adorning the walls, only they were perfectly still, unmoving even when the gusty draughts that stirred his short hair failed to evoke the faintest stir. It was eerie, which coming from a middle aged wizard is somewhat cause for alarm.

He walked down one, two, three, four corridors without even encountering a staircase. To say his heart was sticking to its normal 90 beats a minute would be a deep rooted lie. He didn't have a watch on but he must have been walking for a good fifteen minutes and he was yet to see another person with, what an hour, an hour and a half before term started. A painting to his right caught his eye, a life size portrait of a desolate looking young wizard in melodramatic plum robes and piercing green eyes. It was the painting that hung opposite the room he'd crash landed in.

"Oh." He didn't bother swearing, there was no one to hear him. He was a bit at a loss as to how he'd managed to go in a circle, he was relatively certain he hadn't only turned right or purely left. Sighing he went back in to the classroom to wait for someone to find him, or for his head to clear adequately, the former seemed more likely.

"'Ello, wondered how long you'd take." The voice, which had yet to cause an affect on Sam, had come from the back of the room, behind the desk in front of the fire Sam had already been acquainted with. When Sam finally took decided to look up his eyes were met with what he could only describe as difference. Sat on the chair with his feet shamelessly planted on the desk the man, presumably wizard, was grinning at the disorientated Sam inanely. The glittering from within the mouth sent mild shivers up his spine.

"I knew there'd be a problem with yer, good education wit a cheap rate, I said there'd be a problem, I didn't realise you'd be a mute though." The man spoke with a ridiculous speed and smoothness despite his broken tones and rough accent. Sam felt as if someone had put a door or wall between them, leaving him to make sense of fragments, eventually something told him to talk.

"Sorry, but I appear to be lost." The moronic smile on the man grew slightly. Abruptly he stood up, pacing forward to thrust out a hand.

"Right you are. Jack Sparrow, charms professor." Sam obliged the man in shaking hands. You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake. For instance Jack knew instantly that Sam was a nervous man who generally wore a mask of thick proportions, had problems with his family and himself, and was a sci-fi fan; presumably he was gullible, though Jack couldn't be sure.

"Hello, I assume you know who I am." Jack noted how there was a slight tint of cheap beer on Sam's breath, so he hadn't been in England long. His clothes were muggle, understandable, they were accurate, but not only that, they were of decent quality and appeared to have been bought in a creditable shop. This confused Jack, Sam had stated he was a pureblood for eight generations on his application, and he didn't see much of the intelligence his previous bosses had labelled him with.

"Aye. Oh, yeah. Sorry bout this but I have to do some stupid welcome speech Granger'll know if I don't." Jack took a deep, almost agonized, breath. "Welcome, enter name here?" He was reading off the back of his dark hand. "Oh, right, I get it. Welcome Sam Flynn to Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, I Jack Sparrow have been nominated by the staff to show you around, introduce you to other members of staff and yada, yada. You get the idea. Shall we go?" Jack spun on his heels suddenly. Sam, still loitering around Jack's confusion, followed warily.

The staff room was located three floors down from the class room Sam had entered through, which turned out to be Jack's third year class room; the castle seemed to grow friendlier as the altitude decreased. The torches glowed healthier, cascading the two wizards with pleasant warmth.

Shame about the actual Staffroom really.


End file.
